


Mea Culpa

by grumkin_snark



Series: Comment Fics [11]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Community: leverageland, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2290832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate probably shouldn’t put Eliot on diversions anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mea Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: [Diversion.](http://leverageland.livejournal.com/273859.html)

Usually it’s Hardison or Sophie to be the diversions, because Hardison’s naturally ostentatious and Sophie loves to be the center of attention.  Sometimes it’s Nate, often when a con’s gone south, and every now and then it’s Parker who’s committed a social faux pas.  Very rarely is it Eliot, for no particular reason—it’s just never really come up—until one heist where Nate underestimates the roles to be played and hastily informs the hitter of his new position.

Before he can make any objection, he’s being forced to corral a group of yuppies while his team makes their respective getaways, drawing upon complete bullshit to keep attention rapt.  Oh, he’s a charmer even when it’s not entirely intentional, but that’s in controlled situations, most often when it involves a decently attractive woman.

This is anything but.  These are people mostly over the age of fifty who are wearing earrings or watches or cufflinks that cost more than his childhood home, who go to rotary clubs and high-bid auctions and billiards lounges smoking cigars and talking about stock prices.  He may be significantly richer than when he was growing up, and _is_ the second-best grifter behind Sophie when he needs to be, but he’s thoroughly out of his element.

More importantly, he’s running out of shit to say.  A cursory glance around the room tells him that his team is all out, save Hardison (because _of course it’s goddamn Hardison_ ).  But still, the hacker’s pretty close to a getaway, and Eliot thinks he can probably stall long enough to make his own.  At least, he would have, were it not for the muscle at the end of the room.  Normally, that wouldn’t present an issue—he doesn’t have a price on his head in half a dozen countries for being bad at his job—except _this_ muscle he recognizes.

Turkmenistan, 2004.  From the looks of the man, the jagged scar Eliot had given him never healed quite properly.  Eliot doesn’t have time to make himself scarce before the man realizes his identity, and his successive bullet is a hair’s breadth away from sinking into Eliot’s flesh.

Everyone predictably scatters, screams and broken glass littering the air, and, well, it’s as good a diversion as any.

Five minutes later finds everyone back in the van, speeding away from the scene, Hardison double-checking to make sure none of the security cameras had caught Eliot’s face.  Eliot glares at Nate, who gives him a tight smile.

_Okay_ , it seems to say, _my mistake._


End file.
